


pulvis et umbra sumus

by meowrails



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Hades and Persephone AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowrails/pseuds/meowrails
Summary: Death falls in love with a lonely monk and leads him to the Underworld.





	pulvis et umbra sumus

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of Greek classics and mythology lately and couldn't help but try out at making an AU of one of the most popular myths. Because, of course, once one reads about 5 different Greek classics in a month, it's hard not to be overly pretentious. 
> 
> This fic is inspired by [The Closed Doors by Pauline Albanese](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26864755-the-closed-doors). Give it a read if you can, it's beautiful.
> 
> Title translates to "We are dust and shadow"
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated <3

“θάρσει: σὺ μὲν ζῇς, ἡ δ᾽ ἐμὴ ψυχὴ πάλαι   
τέθνηκεν, ὥστε τοῖς θανοῦσιν ὠφελεῖν.  
-  
Take heart: you, at least, are alive, but my own soul has long since died, in order to help the dead.”

\- Sophocles,  _Antigone_

 

When people die and arrive in the underworld their voice fills with panic. Those with the fear of God or many Gods ask what they did to deserve this punishment. The godless get on their knees and pray for a forgiveness they will not be given. He tells them the same thing each time: this is not hell. There is no heaven. Death is a second step in the process of a stagnant quiet existence, unimportant in the grand scheme of time. Most mortals never listen and continue to cry. He doesn’t bother consoling them, he stopped doing that a long time ago.

When Jason Wong arrives in the underworld, he sits in silence, arms crossed and glaring at him with an expression that could eat him raw. His hands tighten their grip into the flowers he holds. (Stephen forgot about those, he isn’t supposed to have them here.) He is not intimidated by mortals, the times they’ve tried to attack him would take months to measure into numbers. Wong is measuring nothing, he continues to glare almost unmoving until the canoe arrives at the Reaper’s home. Here, the sound of screams and moans of the souls cannot be heard. Here, he can pretend to have some sort of domesticity, even if he is in the Underworld. He thought it would a kind gesture for a frightened human but Wong is not frightened, only furious.

Possibly because he’s the only living thing in the land of the dead. 

The man speaks for the first time in a soft voice when the boat stops at the edge of the river, no current to move it. He offers a helping hand to the monk but he steps out without taking it.  _ This place is a mess. The river water is black and filled with bones. Do daemons not know how to pick up after themselves? _

It was not the sort of reaction he expected.

_ I am not a daemon.  _ Says Stephen. 

_ Are you a reaper? _

_ If that word makes you more comfortable, than yes. I’m a reaper. _ He smiles. It’s the first time he’s smiled in ages. (He measures time in ages and moments now. There is no aging, no measure of motion in the underworld. Everything continues. Why think of time if nothing ever ends?)

_ No. It does not make me comfortable. _ The mortal throws the bundle of flowers in his hand to the floor. They wither to dust as they fall, feeling the aura of lifelessness and void that doesn’t seem to affect him. Wong looks away, voice still soft yet tight.  _ Who are you? _

_ I go by many names but, please, call me Stephen. _

_ Stephen?   _ Wong cannot help but laugh.  _ What kind of being such as you is called Stephen? To think I would have been dragged to hell by a man with an American accent. _

_ This not hell.  _ Stephen clarifies.

_ What is this place? _

_ The underworld. _

_ Same difference.Why did you bring me here?  _ He asks.

_ You wanted to come. You asked me where I came from and I said I would show you.  _ He steps closer and towers over the human. He can see him clearer now, even if they met in the sunlight. His skin is tan and his cheeks are still flushed -- he radiates warmth even here, heat is so rare in the underworld it could be used as currency --  and flowers still sit atop his shaved head. As long as they continue to touch him, they do not die. Had he a better mind at the moment, he would take them from his head before any other soul can see. Stephen made Wong into the gift of life in this dark plane. It would be shameful to lose him now so quickly. _ Here you are in the world below. You said you wanted to go somewhere far from Tibet. This is the farthest you can be. _

Wong spits in his face. Very uncharacteristic for a monk.  _ My master would kill you in a heartbeat. He is strong and he is ancient in wisdom. _

_ I have no heartbeat and trust me when I say I am far more ancient than he. _

_ You tricked me. You killed me and took me for your own.  _

_ I did nothing of the sort. I brought you here because you are still alive. _

He touches his face and feels the flowers resting on his scalp. A petal falls from a daisy. Stephen reaches to touch it before it falls to the ground, holding it out for him.  _ I brought you here because you were kind to me. _

_ That seems like too simple a reason.  _ Wong answers, unimpressed.

_ It is true and it is so.  _ He moves closer. A heart that no longer beats goes up to his throat and feels as if it is choking him.  _ I did not trick you, you knew exactly what I am. You knew and you still asked me to help you collect flowers. You knew and you smiled at me. You knew and you allowed death to kiss you.  _

Wong says nothing. Stephen continues.

_ The living sees me as a mark of evil, the total end. I am merely a guide into the beginning of a metamorphosis. I held open my hand and you took it and I guided you into the darkness without letting you die because you made me feel, for a brief moment, that I was still alive. It is a rare feeling for a reaper to get.  _

Wong’s hands are glued to the fabric of his kasaya, his fingers grabbing at it as if it’s the only thing he could hold. He sits down on a dark wooden chair in the middle of the room. The house around him is dark, Victorian in style and imposing, everything in the Underworld is imposing, and he holds his face steady and stoic despite the tears that run down his cheeks. Stephen forgot how to console the living a long time ago.

_ I’m cold.  _ Wong says in his seat. 

Stephen opens his mouth for a moment then closes it.  _ Everything here is. _

He is shot with another glare and Wong crosses his legs in a position to meditate. His eyes are closes but Stephen can still feel the anger and sadness radiating off him. His ages in this job have taught him how to sense it immediately. He senses it more in the world of the living than in the world of the dead. It will dwindle for Wong one day but Stephen knows it will not end. Nothing here ends.

The reaper returns to his job and reminds himself to throw those flowers out later.

  
  


\---

 

_ Am I your slave? _

_ A slave is an unpaid laborer forced to work against their will. I am not forcing you to work or do anything. All you do is clean out of habit or eat the pomegranates I bring you. _

_ Then I’m your prisoner. _

_ Rarely does a prisoner go into their jail willingly. You are no prisoner. I extended your hand for you to come with me and you took it.  _

_ But you won’t let me out. _

_ The door is not locked. _

Wong checks the door and, sure enough, it opens for him without hesitation. He looks outside and sees a dark river that smells of death. (He learned recently that ‘smells like death’ is a made up, incorrect mortal term. Death does not smell like rotting flesh. In the underworld death smells like newly bloomed flowers, even if they are banned.)

_ The fact that you did not bother to check the door speaks volumes, don’t you think?  _ The man in the black suit says and goes back to reading. He has been on the same page for an hour. What could he be thinking about?

_ How far can I go? _ Wong asks. 

_ What do you mean? _

_ You said the door is open. It is open and I can leave but how far can I leave? Can I leave the Underworld or simply take a small walk?  _ Wong asks.

_ You can go wherever you please, but leaving the Underworld has its consequences. You will not be hurt here. _

_ Here? Is that why you call it a Sanctum? A holy place where no one can hurt you?   _ Wong asks.

Stephen does not answer.

_ What God do you follow? _

This time, Stephen does answer and he speaks with a cold smile. One hand holding his book, the other holding his scythe.

_ I follow no one. Why would my home be the only place here that is holy? _

Wong bolts out the door.  

As dark as the Underworld is he can see everything clearly. Like a dark cave where no light hits yet his eyes have become something different, something inhuman. He hears distant screams and moans, a sound he has become accustomed to in the time he’s been here. (How long has it been? It could be hours. It could be days. There are no clocks in the underworld, no sun to sense direction, no stars to chart position. Let him be get lost then maybe Stephen won’t find him.)

He begins to hear laughter. Wong runs until he finds himself at a park with seesaws and swings and children. Endless, endless amounts of children laughing and running around him, ignoring his existence. Some of them are attached to IVs, some of them are covered in bruises and burn scars but they all continue to play. The monk backs away, slowly, careful not to bump into any of them, but the park feels endless. (Nothing here ends.)

Scattered adults are found in the park. Wong stands next to a woman with darker skin and glasses and cloth covering her head. 

_ What is this?  _ He asks her. She turns to him, the middle of her forehead has a hole the size of a bullet. It doesn’t bleed.

_ The park. You’re new here, aren’t you? _

Wong darts his eyes to a young girl the runs past them. Her face is covered in bruises. The other girl that runs behind her is unmarked and they laugh and laugh and laugh.

_ How can you tell? _

The woman smiles.  _ Because you still look afraid. _

Wong doesn’t understand. He shakes his head and moves closer to her, whispering, as if Stephen could be always watching them.  _ You have to help me get out of here. _

She’s still smiling, though she looks more like a mother smiling at a ridiculous child.  _ No one gets out of here. _

_ I can. I’m still alive, Stephen told me. _

_ Who is Stephen? _

_ Look,  _ Wong breathes out, more exasperated than he’s ever been in his life. He is a monk, such instances should not distress him like this. But no amount of meditation and enlightenment could have prepared him for this.  _ I need to get out. Why hasn’t anyone tried to leave or start an uprising? A revolution? _

_ There is no need for revolutions when everything feels alright.  _ Wong then notices the woman hold up a cigarette to her lips, blowing it away from the direction of the children. When she flicks away the ash the cigarette does not get smaller. An endless source of addiction without the waste.  _ It’s not that bad. It’s just like the world except we’ve all learned for our mistakes. We’re allowed to stay wherever we want for as long as we like. The trees don’t grow but the parks are always full of people. I’m never hungry or thirsty and those who died of hunger always feel full.  _

She blows smoke in his face with a wicked smile and he doesn’t cough.  _ Some people fall in love. You get used to the cold. _

A loud thud comes from behind them. Stephen stands half-kneeling, as if he landed with invisible wings, suit still impeccably pressed and not a hair out of place. Every soul around him falls silent -- whether in fear or in respect, he does not know.

The only sound Wong hear around them are muffled echoes of distant screams. He wants it to be loud again. For the first time in his life, he wants to hear the sound of people. No longer the souls here stay around each other like this, with the sound of pleasant conversation and children’s laughter. It makes it easier to forget.

Stephen rests a hand on his lower back and gently guides him away from the park. The sound of it resumes.

_ Why do I hear screams? _

_ Death is terrifying. This place can be terrifying, just as terrifying as the earth. But nothing can hurt you here. _

_ But why are the screams so loud? _

_ Caves echo.  _ Stephen lets out his hand. It’s slender, pale and covered in scars.  _ Sometimes the sounds are beautiful. _

Carefully, Wong takes his hand. The touch is familiar.

_ Show me. _

Stephen does. He holds Wong by the waist and they drift faster than the speed of light. They pass through walls, endless walls, each one passing by with a rush of wind that isn’t there echoing into the cave like a rhapsody.

Wong begins to hear singing. He wonders if they come from the souls of the dead or something else entirely.

_ I do not hurt them. You know that, right? _

He feels Stephen tighten his hold on his waist as they fly down even if the fall wouldn't kill him. Not here. his home comes into view despite the fact that they are miles and miles away from where Wong remembers the Sanctum to be. When they land, Stephen still holds him. His voice is so low and it is the only voice here that does not echo.  _ I help guide these souls into the Underworld so they can finally be at peace. Life can be worse than death and I am the only promise that is never broken. This place is cold, it is loud and too quiet all at once, and it is dark -- but it is a refuge. I like to think it’s beautiful. I made it into a juxtaposition of itself on purpose. That’s what death is supposed to be. _

Wong cannot help but ask again. His voice feels like it’s shaking.  _ I don’t want to be here. _

_ Yes, you do.  _

_ You have no idea how dull and stagnant life in a monastery can be. I only took your hand because I was curious.  _

_ No.  _ Stephen’s hands come to hold the sides of his face.  _ You took my hand because you were hungry. _

Wong shakes his head as Stephen speaks.

_ I know you boys are told to be selfless and kind all the time. Most of the things you were told were wrong, like reincarnation. This is the only vessel you will ever inhabit. Allow yourself to be cruel and selfish.  _

_ I can’t -- _

_ No.You won’t. _

Wong runs inside the house. The hallway is endless, he loses count at over one hundred room. Over one hundred unlocked doors. Stephen stands in front of him the instant he blinks like a shadow in the corner of his eye when he tried to sleep. Maybe he’s been that shadow the entire time. Wong is panting. How long has he been running for?

_ I want to make this place good for you. A place that will never hurt you. If I have to give up this home, this staff, and every soul in the Underworld, I would.  _

_ You said that you would never hurt them. _

_ I wouldn’t hurt them. I would just be killing them. _

_ No.  _ Wong shakes his head.  _ I don’t want any of that. No sacrifice, no empty promises. I don’t want any of that. You need not to bend the order of your world just to appease me.  _

_ I still want to give you something. Anything.  _ The reaper’s collected resolve breaks, for once. He steps closer and Wong doesn’t back away.  _ Please. _

_ Make the water drinkable. _

_ No one goes thirsty here so the souls won’t suffer dehydration. The water would kill you, souls rot in it. I can’t do that. _

_ Then make fruits grow in the dead trees. _

_ No one goes hungry here so the souls won’t suffer from starvation. The only fruits that I can allow are red, like strawberries. And raspberries. And watermelons. And wine. And pomegranates. They imitate blood and flesh.  _

Wong scoffs.  _ Seems messy and barbaric. _

_ Blood does not flow in the Underworld. It allows the souls to remember what theirs looked like... I can’t allow any more than that. _

_ Then let the flowers fully bloom. _

Stephen opens his mouth to speak. He closes it. Wong waits through an uncomfortably long silence. When Stephen speaks again it’s angry, smoke escapes from his lips. Is his anger facing Wong or himself? Stephen looks down when he speaks, he can’t tell.  _ I--I can’t do that. _

_ Then this place will never be for me.  _

When Wong walks away, Stephen does not follow this time. 

 

\---

 

The sanctum feels alone even when Stephen is there. Stephen doesn’t occupy space. His presence feels like the lack of presence, as if he isn’t really there. Sometimes, Wong thinks he sees him in the corner of his eye and it turns out to be his shadow. Except there are no shadows in the Underworld -- there’s no sun, no fire, no light.  

It feels smaller than it should be even with the thousands and thousands of rooms. Compared to the rest of the underworld, the Sanctum feels like a grain of sand in the beach. (Oh, how he misses the sun.) Yet Wong refuses to go outside again. The souls smile but they are terrifying. He thinks that he will get used to them, someday in the future. He then scolds himself for making plans for the future inside this dark, dark world. 

After their last talk, the reaper leaves him to his own devices, occasionally offering endless amounts of wine that Wong does not drink -- the water here will kill him. Wong laughs at the thought. How ridiculous would it be for him to be the first to die in the Underworld? Stephen wouldn’t even have to retrieve his soul and guide it through the river. It would be right in front of him, ripe for the taking.

He makes sure to offer himself before Stephen dares asking. He will not let Death take his right to chose away from him. He wants warmth, just a sliver, enough to allow Stephen’s trembling hands run down his skin and for his lips to kiss his flesh. His body is cold, far too cold, yet every one of Stephen’s touches is tender and careful, as if he’s scared to break him. Wong is made of stronger things but he does not pull him away. It’s merciful and slow enough that he almost feels heat from the other man. Almost. Not quite like the fire he expected from sex. Not a fire, no. More like melting ice.

 

Afterwards, Stephen cleans them with magic (never water) and brings him wine. And pomegranates, always damn pomegranates. Wong eats them anyway, his fingers are so stained form the juice that his fingertips are stained bright red, along with his lips and the sides of his mouth. From the grand bed, he looks at himself in the mirror. It looks like he’s eaten raw flesh.

He tosses the pomegranate to the floor and it rots away instantly.

The Reaper presses a kiss to curve of his neck, right where his pulse is.  _ I had forgotten what this feels like.  _

_ You don’t sleep with the souls?  _

_ No. I would never do that. I am the one that lead them here in the first place, it would be cruel to take advantage of them like that. _

Wong purses his lips. He doesn’t comment on the obvious.  _ Did you have someone before?  _ He asks, trying to direct the conversation elsewhere.  _ Someone like you? _

Stephen pulls away, his hand still on Wong’s chest. His heartbeat sounds louder in the Underworld. Maybe Stephen made it sound louder on purpose. He’s grown used to it by now -- like a clock ticking away in the background.

_ I did. She was not like me. She had another job overseeing mortals and it did not work out. Too radiant for the Underworld, while I cast too large a shadow on the Earth. _

Wong shakes his head.  _ Gods are too complicated. _

_ We are. _ He huffs and a black smoke escapes his mouth.  _ Yet you spread your legs for me and prayed. _

The heartbeat that echoes across the room grows faster. Wong frowns and looks away to the window. It faces a cave wall. Stephen’s hand manages to slither to his waist and pull him closer once more.  _ I am sorry if I said anything out of line. Forgive me, I was merely trying to have a bit of fun with you. _

_ I suppose you are not used to having fun at all.  _ Wong answered, bitterly.

_ You’re angry. _

_ I am. _

_ Usually, this sort of act calms mortals down. What’s wrong? Let me help you, please. _

_ You can’t, not with this.  _ He grits his teeth.  _ I didn’t expect death to be like this. When I died, I thought I my soul would be turned to something else. Something useful, something beautiful -- _

_ You are both of those things.  _ Stephen cuts him off.  _ And so much more. _

Wong does not seem phased.  _ You said you this was a metamorphosis. These souls stay the same, stuck in another stagnant life, just in another plane. I don’t want to die, I want to be reborn. _

_ This is how it has been, how it is, and how it will always be. I cannot bend the rules of death just for one mortal, even if that mortal is you.  _

_ I did not expect you to... _

The room falls silent. The heartbeat echoes so much slower as Wong steadies his breathing. Not quite meditation, but not completely conscious of his surroundings anymore. Stephen has the decency and mercy to allow him the breathe in an air that does not exist. An air created just for his own sake that smells of blooming flowers and pomegranates. Always pomegranates.

_ What did you want to become when you were reborn? Rich?  Different appearance? Surely you would not want to continue to be a monk. _

_ No.  _ Wong says.  _ I think I wanted to become a flower. _

_ Why not a person? _

_ Why not a flower? _

_ Fair point. _  Stephen pauses.  _ Which kind? _

_ Any kind. Even a weed.  _

_ No.  _ Stephen says.  _ You deserve to be something that blooms and is just as warm and colorful as you. Weeds are a nuisance people get rid of, you are not. You could be a rose. _

_ Too cliché, there are nicer flowers. What about a poppy?   _ Wong says.

_ Too simple. Something else. _ Stephen seemed deep in thought, skin so pale beside him that it seemed to reflect off a light that wasn’t there. 

_ A hyacinth? _

The reaper winces.  _ Too stained with memories of dead lovers and tragedy. What about a peony? _

_ Why a peony? _

_ They only bloom in Spring. _

_ What does that have to do with me? _

_ It was spring when I met you. You gave me a peony. It was the first flower I had touched in ages. When I touched it, it did not wither away. _

Wong feels Stephen take his hand. The trembling grows stronger. He doesn’t understand why the Reaper seems so afraid to speak to him. Or maybe the trembling comes from his scars. What cut him open? What forced him into this job and into this world? Would he be cut open again, would he still bleed?

_ You miss the world above, don't you? _   Wong asks.

He can no longer see Stephen's face even if his eyes have adapted to the dark. He is deliberately hiding it behind his shadows.  _No, but I thought it would be nice... to have just a part of it with me. Just a bit of warmth. A memory of it._

_I am not a memory, I am still a man._ For a moment, Wong thinks of pulling his hand away. He chooses not to and feels Stephen tighten his grip.  _I never agreed to be a source of light among death, I just wanted to know you. Know more about you. Would you have brought me here if I was another soul you lead along your river?_

Stephen answers quickly.  _Yes. Yes, I would._ He can't tell if the Reaper is lying.

Wong pauses. _If_ _ it pleases you, I can be a peony. _

Stephen brings his hand to his lips. Not kissing it, but whispering to it in a language Wong cannot quite place. It sounds like mandarin for a moment but it is something else entirely. He looks at him with sad eyes as dark, black smoke materializes behind him, enveloping his chest, arms and legs, then turning into clothing.  _ I have things to do. I will be back soon.  _

With a final kiss to his knuckles, Stephen walks out the door to guide more souls to the rest of their second lives.

There’s something in Wong’s hand, something delicate and soft. He opens it and sees a peony resting on his palm.


End file.
